


Green Shirt

by undun



Series: 4x2 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Disability, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5296613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry defeated Voldemort, of course. Exactly what did it cost him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> This series of fics was my first foray into writing fan fiction. Circa 2003.  
> Disclaimer: This work is a non-profit pastiche. No infringement upon existing copyrighted material is intended.

I watch him stand against the wall, occasionally shifting from one leg to the other, for the better part of an hour. He looks contented enough. Truth to tell, I don’t really know how contented he used to look before…

 

 

My days of Potter-watching started after the event so I lack a reliable yardstick against which to measure the data. I compare one day to another instead. My studies having grown more rigorous since it was discovered that he could hear my voice – and only _my_ voice. This strikes me as ironic, or perhaps just unfortunate coincidence. He has approached me to have it all explained to him – no doubt hoping for short syllables. I have managed to avoid the most crucial detail. I gave him the bullet points, and that is all he needs to know to be going on with.

 

At last he moves away from the wall. He has refused to dance, although he has had many urging him to join the rabid crush on the floor. The imbeciles seem unable to grasp the concept that where one cannot hear the music one might perhaps feel a little inhibited about attempting to dance to it.

 

He is heading for the door and, before I know what I’m doing, I have moved to follow him. I see the edge of his dress robe just before it disappears out of sight into the boys’ bathroom.

 

Oh. Right.

 

I have turned to move back into the banquet hall, and then change my mind as I register my own need for relief – too much punch. Pineapple juice is, after all, a diuretic. As I enter the tiled, slightly rank, room I hear hushed voices.

 

“He’s as deaf as a post, I’m tellin’ you. Just don’t let him see your mouth while you’re talkin’ and you can say fuckin’ anythin’…”

 

They have their backs to me, lingering in front of the urinal while casting furtive glances at Potter who is in splendid Gryffindor isolation at the far end. Eyes on his tackle and missing every word. The other boy sniggers, and I identify him by the utter inanity of his laugh. One of mine: Slytherin, Brian Callus. Another coincidence?

 

“Hey Potter, ever heard of the Penis Extension Charm? You sure could use it!”

 

There is much shaking with laughter over this witticism. No one has noticed my presence yet. I take another silent step closer. Potter glances curiously at the two Slytherins, then turns to shake and tuck. I can hear his zipper just before the next barb.

 

“Potter doesn’t need a decent todger, you moron – he only takes it up the arse!”

 

Potter turns towards the basin, noticing my presence but seemingly unsurprised by it. He passes me to wash his hands. I notice a brief flash of emerald green cloth before he slides his robe back into position.

 

“Good evening Professor. Any out-of-control drunks yet?”

 

The dolts have hurriedly pulled themselves together and have at last turned to face me. They don’t know how much I’ve heard, but they’ve only been slagging off a Gryffindor after all. They don’t even look guilty. Apprehensive perhaps.

 

Keeping my back to Potter, I answer him matter-of-factly. “Not yet, but the night is young.” I note the slight widening of the boys’ eyes. I sneer at them.

 

“Potter, considering that these two prats have just made allusions to the diminutive size of your genitalia, what would you have me to do to them by way of recompense?”

 

I hear the tap being turned off.

 

“Hmm, what would you recommend, Professor?”

 

With one last glare at the pair who, gratifyingly, have gone a touch pale, I turn to face Potter. He is shaking the excess water off his hands. “No doubt the House Elves would be grateful to be spared the task of cleaning the Banquet Hall after the farewell has ended?”

 

He smiles up at me. It almost reaches his eyes this time. “I think that’s an excellent idea. The Elves have certainly earned a break tonight – it was a wonderful feast,” he whispers calmly. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to deduct house points, could I?” he asks, looking speculatively at the now rigid pair.

 

“Potter, you’re about to bloody leave school! That’s just petty!”

 

He doesn’t look back at my face, just squeezes his mouth around a disappointed exhalation of breath, “Well, it was worth a try. See you inside, Professor!”

 

So saying, he exits the bathroom. I direct a menacing glare at the two despicables in front of me.

 

“See me at the end of the party. And choose your targets carefully next time gentlemen. Potter has more power in the first joint of his index finger than you two would have in your combined body mass.” They scurry out and I finally have the chance to take a piss. Mustn’t piss in front of the students; that’s how nasty rumours start.

 

*** *** ***

 

Almost over. A mere scattering of soon-to-be-departing students left clutching each other with drunken desperation, or just desperation, as they weave around the floor to a slow, sad song. I don’t see Potter anywhere. I know I’m frowning. I’m irritated that he slipped past me. I don’t know why I should be so irritated.

 

Yes I do. I just don’t want to.

 

“Outside, in the gardens.” Minerva tips her head to indicate the glass doors. They had been opened at some point in the evening when the room had become close and humid from an overabundance of sweaty teenagers prancing about it. I frown again. Why is she telling me? Have I been that obvious? My career as a spy for Dumbledore should have stood me in much better stead than that. “Go on, I’ll hold the fort,” she says with a roll of her eyes – whether at me, and my new hobby, or the drunken train wreck on the dance floor, I have no notion. Perhaps she knows me better than I had thought. The idea terrifies me. If there are two things I thought I was an authority on, it was potions and the inner workings of my own twisted brain.

 

 

Outside it is blessedly cool. He is leaning with his elbows on the stone banister. His robe lies discarded over the stonework. It was the shirt I had glimpsed earlier in the boys’ bathroom. Satin, if I know my Muggle fibres… inclined to shimmer in the light as if it were alive. I lean my hip against the banister, looking down at his profile.  He could have been carved in stone himself. Alabaster.

 

“Looking a bit sombre for a party-goer, aren’t you?”

 

He twists his body sideways to look up at me, his shirt looking far more alive than his green eyes.

 

“Professor McGonagall has asked me to stay,” he states bluntly.

 

I nod. “Yes, I know. Trainee to the Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher.” As if he would actually lengthen his stay here when he could escape and make a new future for himself, away from house politics and his annoying ‘Boy Who Lived’ reputation.

 

He shifts back to gaze at the empty space in front of him again. “You aren’t seriously contemplating it, are you?” I stare intently at his moonlit face, all silvery edges and cast shadows. The music drifts through the open door – some banal love song that is entirely inappropriate to this conversation. For a second I envy Potter his disability. Just for a moment. It passes when I remember that he gets to hear me hissing away instead of something at least vaguely melodious.

 

“I’m not sure. I feel like I should go, make something out of my life–” He dips his head down to rub his face with his hands, then gives a harsh huff of breath. “But I feel like I belong here. Even now that he’s gone, I can feel his presence.”

 

No need to ask. Dumbledore. He permeates the place, even in death. I don’t imagine Minerva finds much joy in trying to fill his impossible shoes. She never did like heels. I tune in again as Potter continues.

 

“And I can certainly speak with some authority when it comes to the Dark Arts!” He meets my eyes with a smirk. Again, the humour is barely there. “I will need to do something about this voice though,” he whispers in annoyance.

 

“That shan’t be a problem, so don’t let it be a consideration. Have you talked to Lupin?”

 

He raises his eyes to the sky. “Full moon.”

 

Well, I knew that of course, but it’s the first night – he’s been putting it off deliberately. “You’re bothered about telling him.” I can be blunt too. He looks at me in surprise. It cuts through the damn apathy for a second and I want to cheer. Since when has jolting Potter out of his damn self-pity become so important?

 

“Well, I… I suppose he might think that it’s unfair to Sirius.”

 

What the bloody hell does Black have to do with it? What convoluted guilt trip is the boy indulging in? I know all about them of course, but this must be an outstanding example. I watch him intently, raising my eyebrows in question. I am quite restrained.

 

“Well, we haven’t had much time to be a family, and… if I stay here, I’ll be resident at the castle. We had always planned to share a house at the end of it all. I mean, he is supposed to be a father figure – and he is, but…” Potter shakes his head as if it’s hurting, “I just want a real father sometimes, without all the baggage that Sirius carries.” He hangs his head as if shamed by the admission. Perfectly bloody reasonable as far as I’m concerned, and I tell him so.

 

He snorts in disbelief, “You hate the man, Professor. Is your opinion of him likely to be unbiased?”

 

“Yes, I hate the moron, but I was commenting on your feelings, not his.” I’m talking louder than I need to – competing with a suddenly raucous wall of music behind me that Potter doesn’t hear. He shrinks away from me slightly. “Sorry,” I reach out a hand that is never in danger of connecting with him. “It’s the music, I forgot–” Potter turns back to look at the last bunch of bedraggled dancers through the doorway.

 

“I really miss it all,” he rasps quietly. I’m using an audio-enhance spell to hear him now; it helps to drown out the racket from indoors.

 

“If you aren’t too tired, come to see me in my chambers. I have something that might be of use to you.” Ah, he’s interested now – but too contrary to ask me what I’m talking about. He wants to play cool, not give away the undercurrent of anticipation he feels.

 

And just how the hell do I know all this? Merlin help me.

 

*** *** ***

 

I have had perhaps more scotch than I intended. But he is late, and I begin to wonder if he will appear at all tonight. I take another mouthful of my third glass, relishing the mellow burn, and the loosening of muscles. I must admit that I have been nervous. No. I can’t be nervous – it’s just bloody Potter. I am… tense? Expectant?

 

Wasn’t I supposed to know myself just a little?

 

Well, if one is going to act wildly out of character for the first time in one’s life, I suppose it may as well be over the last wizard left standing after a showdown between the forces of Dark and Light. The one that had carried my half-dead carcass from the edge of the Forbidden Forest to the entrance of Hogwarts, all the while suffering the agony of the tiny bones inside his ears - now fragmented and useless - the perforated eardrums, the seared vocal chords.

 

Exactly how far can I rationalise this?

 

There is a hesitant knock, then another. It goes in a series of threes, you idiot! I slosh my glass down and pick up a small velvet bag, tucking it away as I stride, in a perfectly straight line, to the door. It swings open obediently for me. I do like a well-trained door.

 

“Am I too late?” he whispers softly.

 

“Extremely. I had to drink, drown my sorrows at being stood up!”

 

Rather wonderfully, he laughs, “You did not! You drank because you bloody well like scotch!”

 

“Impudent fool!” Damn, I only realise that I’ve been smiling as it fades and slides off my face. “I have something for you,” I scrabble to open my robe, to withdraw the small bag from its hiding place.

 

“Professor. Maybe we should talk,” his voice totters to a stop as he eyes the bag in my outstretched hand. For some reason he had been clenching his hands together.

 

“What is that?” He slowly moves a hand up to take it from me.

 

“It’s for you, Harry.” That makes him look at me sharply. Not since that day have I called him–

 

“I don’t know whether to thank you yet, Git.”

 

Fear of being seen smiling again sends me back to reclaim my unfinished glass. “Would you like a drink?” But I am too late to get a sensible answer, he is already occupied – hissing and laughing in delight. When he does look at me, tears are already running down his face. He laughs through them, perverse idiot that he is.

 

“She says her name is Nesss,” he gasps out, and then is busy hissing away again. I sigh, feeling unnaturally warm, and swig my scotch in a strangely contented mood.

 

“She’s beautiful, just beautiful. And so petite!”

 

The serpent winds happily around his finger, a barely audible hiss issues from it. “Oh, yes you are, my girl – and don’t let anyone tell you different!” It really is quite sickening.

 

“You know there was more than mere aesthetics involved with it.” Potter glowers at me. “Her,” I amend with a sneer. “She is a translator.”

 

Potter glances down at the fierce little creature, as if he has only just realised that it had responded to his English, not his Parseltongue.

 

“And…” I pause for effect here – I have paid for the privilege after all, “she can make herself invisible on request.”

 

His mouth makes a perfect circle. I swig another mouthful to disguise my self-satisfied smile.

 

“Severus–” he breathes. I need more scotch.

 

“Since when have I been–”

 

“Since you started treating me like a human being, if you must know. And since I started to like you.” He flicks a quick glance at me, but nothing can keep his attention from the miniature serpent for long. He strokes her delicately, a rapt look on his face. Completely besotted.

 

“Potter, I’m tired. Go away.”

 

“Yes, Severus. See you tomorrow,” he says mildly and turns and walks through an obligingly opened door. I throw it a glare as it closes, “That’s _me_ you’re supposed to be obeying! Next thing I know every Tom, Dick, and Harry–” God, I must be drunk.

 

*** *** ***

 

TBC in "Hiss"


End file.
